


Traveled Half the World to Say I Do

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Arguments, Comedy of Errors, Fear of Flying, Flirting, Fluff, Happily Ever After, Jealousy, Lost Luggage, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Schmoop, Werewolf Jackson, destination wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the one hand, it’s a romantic trip to Paris. On the other hand, it’s a surprise destination wedding, and <i>everything</i> is going wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traveled Half the World to Say I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PixeledAerion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixeledAerion/gifts).



> Oh my goodness, where do I even begin? First of all, dear PixeledAerion, thank you so much for an adorable prompt. I thought it was going to be cute and sweet and fun and short and I may have kind of failed at the short part. When I read the lyrics for the song, my brain misread one of the lines, and that line became the title. So instead of a proposal fic, you get a proposal fic AND a wedding fic, two for the price of one! I really hope you enjoy the direction your prompt sent me; I had an absolute blast writing this even if it did end up a wee bit longer than I planned.
> 
> I have taken great liberties with the concept of how a wedding happens in France. Please forgive me.
> 
> Thank you so much to M, my faithful alpha reader, and to R for betaing; you guys are always so wonderful to me.

“We’re going to be late.”

“Dude. We are _not_ going to be late.” Stiles meets Jackson’s gaze in the rearview mirror, twists and reaches between the seats to touch his knee. “Scott’s got this under control, and we’ll be at the airport more than two hours before departure. I told you, I have contingencies for our contingencies. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“Have you ever traveled internationally before?” Jackson’s head tilts, his gaze narrowed. “No. And I have. Multiple times, remember? Which means I’m the one with experience with international flights, and _you—_ ”

“I’m the king of research and my best friend is driving us to the airport, and we are _fine_.” Stiles squeezes Jackson’s knee. “Do you really think I’m going to let anything go wrong on our big romantic trip to Paris? You’ve been there; I haven’t. I have everything planned perfectly so you can show me the sights, make me as world-weary a traveler as you are. Plus I may have planned a few surprises of my own.”

“I worry when you say _surprises_ ,” Jackson grumbles.

“You should,” Scott says, and Stiles turns to face forward quickly enough that he almost punches his best friend in the face. Scott gets a hand up in time, knocking Stiles’s arm away. “Hey, driving here. No hitting the driver.”

“Sorry, but _dude_ , have faith in a guy.” Stiles settles back into his seat. He knows the entire itinerary by heart, and he knows where they have to be and when in order to get to every stop on time. Including the ones Jackson has no idea about. “See, Jackson, we’re pulling up now, so just relax and enjoy the trip. Even if you don’t like flying.”

“No wolf likes flying,” Scott tells him, as Jackson growls softly in the back seat.

“Which is why Jackson has done it so often.” Stiles slips out of the car and yanks the back door open, just in time to offer a hand to Jackson so he can climb out. “But this time I’m going with you. I’m tired of you jetting off for family in London, or business in Rome, and leaving me behind. This trip is for _us_ , and it’s going to be fantastic.”

It only takes a small tug and Jackson is pulling at Stiles in return, one hand around his head, yanking him down to kiss him fiercely. There’s a nip to Stiles’s lip, and he’s sure it draws blood but it also marks him, leaves him with a lasting impression of Jackson’s irritation. “We are _not_ going to run barely on time to everything this trip,” Jackson warns him, mouthing a mark along Stiles’s neck.

“We are standing outside the terminal and there’s a guy waiting to take our luggage and you have now made sure that I am hard as a rock,” Stiles whispers in return, one hand on Jackson’s ass and squeezing. “I am pretty sure that everyone here is now fully aware that we like to dive for each other’s tonsils on a regular basis.”

Jackson pulls back, one eyebrow arching. “Tonsil dive. You can’t just say _kiss_.”

“Nope.” Stiles grabs his suitcase from the back of Scott’s car, then pulls his friend in for a back-slapping hug. “Take care, bro, and thank you for everything.” It’s more than Jackson knows, and Stiles can’t say _see you soon_ because he’s pretty sure Jackson would hear something in his heartbeat. Honestly, planning surprises for a werewolf is almost impossible.

They’ve got everything queued up on the curb, and Scott yanks Jackson into a quick hug as well before he gets back in the car to pull away. Stiles shoulders his backpack while wrestling the bag he has to check over to the kiosk. Unlike _some_ people, he has normal human strength and can’t just easily throw the bag up on the scale like Jackson has.

Jackson stands there, tapping a finger idly on the counter, his carry-on by his feet as he waits for the attendant to tag his bag and put it on the conveyer to be loaded. The attendant is murmuring airports like a mantra: _San Francisco, JFK, Paris_. Stiles reaches out to cover Jackson’s hand, recognizing the movement for the nervousness that it is.

“We’ll be in the air soon enough, and you can pass out then. I’d say drink something, but…”

Jackson glares at Stiles as his voice trails off. “No digs about being unable to get drunk.”

“Oh, do I ever have plans for you.” Stiles laughs, the sound fading quickly when the attendant gives him a sharp look. “Um. Not airplane plans. Nothing in the plane, I mean, no mile high club or anything. Just. Plans for Paris. _Romantic_ boyfriend type plans.” He sighs in relief as she goes back to checking things, a printer whirring to life beneath the desk.

“You’re ten pounds overweight,” she announces, slapping a sticker on the bag. “All I need is a credit card to pay for the overage, and we’ll be all set.”

“I thought you weighed the bags,” Jackson says slowly. “Stiles, I reminded you that _every small thing_ takes up space. You were supposed to weigh the bags.”

“I weighed mine,” Stiles protests. And he _did_ , and it’s perfect. He may have put a couple small things in Jackson’s case, but he figured Jackson would weigh it and there wouldn’t be a problem.

The attendant taps her foot. “A card, please?” She looks at the line forming behind them, and Jackson shoves his hand into his pocket to withdraw a wallet, slapping an Amex on the counter. Her sour expression turns to smiles as she processes the charge. “Thank you very much, Mr. Whittemore. I hope you have a pleasant day. Next?”

Stiles’s bag goes through without any difficulty, and he lingers over watching them disappear down the belt to wherever bags go to be loaded. “I really hope they end up in Paris,” he says softly. “Do you remember the time my bag went to Houston when I went to Boston to visit Lydia?”

“That was one time.” Jackson has an arm around his waist, tugging him toward the airport. “Airlines lose bags far less often than the publicity would like to make you believe.”

“Hang on.” Stiles feels the buzz in his pocket, fishes his phone out and cradles it as he tries to see the screen.

_Please text Scott to tell him to stop worrying about his speech._

Okay, so, Scott _just_ left them here. For Allison to be complaining, he must have called her on the way back to Beacon Hills. His thumbs fly over the keyboard, composing a response. 

_Tell him yourself. I’m getting on a plane and I don’t want Jackson to be suspicious._

He reconsiders, and he has to ask because the anxiety must be getting to him.

_You have your tickets? Are you packed? The suits? The dresses?_

He imagines Allison laughing at him, and there isn’t an immediate response which only makes him worry.

“Are you going to stand there texting all day?”

Oh shit. He’s supposed to be _subtle_. Stiles flashes a quick smile. “Allison just wanted to know if Scott hit the road yet. They have some plans tonight with Isaac, I think. Stuff I really don’t want the details of.”

“I think the two of you compete to see who can make the other less comfortable,” Jackson muses. “It’s disturbing to realize just how much Scott knows about my sex life.”

“Just think how much I know about Allison and Isaac,” Stiles counters. He shoves the phone deep in his pocket, trying to ignore the buzzing. Whoever it is, they’ll try again later. Or he’ll answer later. Maybe a bathroom trip so he can text in peace, without Jackson catching him. “But forget about them. This trip is about us. Let’s go get through security so we can be one step closer to Paris.”

Stiles slides his shoes off before he gets to the front of the line, trying to balance his bag, his laptop that he’s taken out of his bag, his shoes, and peel things from his pockets all at once. There’s a clatter of change when he drops it in the bin, and he drops his phone in as well. The laptop he hands to the security guard, who tries to put it on the conveyer and Stiles stops him. “Look, I know it’s paranoid, but I just don’t want her to go through the scanner.” Stiles watches as Jackson goes through and starts picking up their things on the other side.

The guard motions others around Stiles, then gestures for him to step off to the side. “Start the laptop up,” he orders. “While it boots, we’ll scan you.”

“Scan… me?” Stiles has never had this happen before. On the other hand, he’s only flown on exactly two trips—one to Boston, and another to New York—so his experience is limited. He glances down the line and spots Jackson standing there, Stiles’s backpack over his shoulder, sneakers in his arms, while he chats with a pair of attractive young women.

Because of course they are still attracted to him like flies.

Stiles pushes the button on his laptop, hears the beep, and then stands with his arms stuck straight out and legs spread so he can endure the indignity of the wand. When he chances a glance at his laptop, it seems to be stuck mid-boot, cranking along but not quite making it to the login screen. As soon as he’s cleared, he dives for the keyboard. “Let me just…”

“Without you touching it.” The guard nudges him back, and Stiles watches as the laptop shifts to a blue screen of death, stack dump scrolling esoteric information across the screen.

Stiles sighs. “Can I try again?” 

It takes three tries before the computer finally boots into the system and Stiles puts it through its paces, proving that it’s not a tricky plastic bomb in a shiny Windows 10 case. He has no idea why it crashed, or what’s going on, but it seems to just be how the day is going, like the fact that Jackson just shoves the backpack and shoes at him, leaving Stiles stumbling and awkward as he tries to do everything at once.

He hops on one foot, yanking his sneaker on. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“You could’ve just put it through. It’s not going to damage your laptop.” Jackson holds up his tablet, waves it slightly as if to show that it works. “Technology is keeping up with the times. Are you stuck in the 80s? You weren’t even _alive_ in the 80s.”

“This is my baby.” His special non-working frustrating baby, and Stiles is going to have to figure out _why_ it’s misbehaving, probably sometime in Paris. He has information that he _needs_ on this laptop, not that Jackson needs to know that. Maps, time tables, things he wasn’t able to completely commit to memory or print.

“Come on. We still need to check in.” Jackson grabs Stiles’s hand, and Stiles is just glad it’s his _hand_ , not his wrist or his upper arm. If it’s his _hand_ , then Jackson isn’t irrevocably pissed off. Not yet, anyway. But he’s still hauling Stiles through the airport with werewolf strength, as Stiles stumbles after him toward wherever the gate is for their flight.

By the time they get there, Stiles is breathing hard and knows he needs to re-tie his sneaker because it’s too loose and moving around on his foot, driving him nuts. He lowers his backpack to the ground and kneels to do so after handing his passport to Jackson for check-in. It gives him a minute to breathe and try to regain his equilibrium, tuning out the noise and chaos of the airport around him.

Until he hears Jackson growling.

Stiles shoots to his feet, backpack in one hand, his other hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“They upgraded my seat,” Jackson snarls.

“Your frequent flyer account has you listed for automatic upgrades whenever a seat comes available and you are eligible to take it.” The man behind the counter—Stan, his name tag claims—offers a thin smile. “Since there was a seat in first class, you’ve been upgraded to that.”

“But I’m traveling _with_ someone this time,” Jackson points out, and Stiles gets the feeling it’s not the first time he’s said it. Jackson jabs a finger at the monitor. “So change me back.”

“I can’t.” Stiles would like to say that Stan looks sorry about saying that, but he doesn’t. Stan continues calmly, “We have a fully booked flight and all of our seats in economy are already taken.”

“I’ll trade.”

Stan’s smile grows tighter, thinner. “Sir, airline policy prefers that all passengers remain seated in their assigned locations. In the event that anything might occur on the flight—”

Oh that is _not_ the right direction to take with this conversation. Jackson might have racked up thousands of miles in the air, but he _hates_ it, and Stiles does his best to head this off before it gets worse. “It’s okay,” he says quickly. It’s not really okay and it’s definitely not ideal. It’s nowhere _near_ ideal, considering, but he can work with it. He has to work with it, before Jackson causes trouble. “Look, Jackson, it’ll be fine. You’ll sleep for most of the trip, and I’ll watch movies and you won’t have to listen to me talking to the actors. And when we get to Paris we’ll be back together on the ground and everything will be perfect.”

“Your companion seems to have no issue—”

“Do you _want_ to sit separately?” Jackson turns to Stiles, a frown drawing his brows together. “Weren’t you just talking this morning about enforced togetherness and taking sappy pictures of us sleeping on each others’ shoulders? What happened to romantic cuddling and the mile high club?”

Stan’s eyebrows rise, and Stiles laughs awkwardly, because yeah, well, not exactly a conversation for here. “There are ways around…” He coughs, shaking his head. “Not that we’d do that. In a public location.” He shoulders his backpack, feels his phone buzzing _again_ , repeatedly and uncomfortably in his pocket. He pulls it out just long enough to see that it’s Lydia; by the time he looks back to Jackson a wall has slid down and Jackson simply stares at him, stone-faced.

“Fine,” Jackson says, holding out his hand. “Print our boarding passes. Stiles, I’ll see you on the layover in JFK, if I don’t sleep through it. You obviously aren’t interested in actually traveling together.”

Fuck. The only thing worse than an irritable Jackson is a nervous Jackson, or a wounded Jackson, and right now Stiles has managed to get all three for the price of one. “Jacks…”

“ _Jackson_ ,” he snaps back, not looking at Stiles. Jackson sinks into one of the hard plastic chairs, his carry-on under his feet so no one could get to it without disturbing him. He crosses his arms and stares at the wall.

Stiles’s phone buzzes again.

“We _could_ spend the next hour and a half talking,” Stiles points out. “Spending time together before the flight, since we can’t on the plane because _your_ frequent flyer plan upgraded your ticket.”

“Now it’s my fault? I was trying to fix it when _you_ said it was fine.” Jackson shrugs. “Besides. You have people to text, apparently. Your phone sounds like it’s having a fit.”

Stiles does. He really _does_ need to handle whatever is being texted to him because there are _plans_ and _contingencies_ and he’s not dealing well with things that don’t go right. But at the same time, this is a romantic vacation, and he just wants to spend time with his boyfriend being obnoxiously cute.

He sits down on the chair next to Jackson, knocks knees and is relieved when Jackson doesn’t move away from the pressure. But he hears the sniff as he pulls his phone out and cocks it so Jackson can’t read the screen.

And of course, there’s a problem that he needs to talk to Lydia about and it’s a solid half hour before they get that solved, then something comes up with his dad, and he excuses himself to step away and take the phone call.

He comes back when they call first class for boarding, just in time to see Jackson heading through the gate and to the jetway.

This is _not_ the start he wanted to this trip.

#

Stiles sleeps from San Francisco to JFK. His backpack is buried under his seat, his feet hooked through one of the straps because _yes_ , he’s slightly paranoid (after everything that’s happened in Beacon Hills since Scott was bitten, he thinks maybe he deserves to be). He doesn’t stir when half the passengers disembark, or when the crew shifts over. When a new seat mate climbs over him to get to the window, he shifts and moves to let them by, grumbling when the third seat between them is filled as well. He wants to stretch out into the aisle, but he knows the carts will be rolling through as soon as they’re in the air.

Now that he’s napped, he’s antsy, feet tapping, fingers drumming beats into the arm rest as the plane rises into the sky and moves out over the Atlantic ocean. When the lady next to him lowers her knitting to glare for the third time, Stiles offers a small smile and rises, undoing his seat belt and murmuring _stretching my legs_ as if she actually cares.

He actually has a purpose, an ulterior motive, and he really hopes that this part of the plan goes well. There are no texts to help him, no way of contacting anyone outside this plane right now. He has to hope that everything is in place.

He makes his way to the center of the plane where a narrow galley sits, surrounded by bathrooms and occupied by three flight attendants readying two drink carts. He smiles at the redheaded woman, clears his throat and says, “Excuse me.”

She turns to look at him, her ponytail swishing at her back, and cocks her head. She has a spray of freckles across a too-pale nose, and a sudden bright grin. “You must be Stiles. Lydia told me about—” Her fingers wave at the moles on his face in lieu of a description, and he nods.

“That’s me. Jessica, right?” He lets go a breath he didn’t know he was holding when she nods. “Good, good. Is it… Lydia talked to you. Is everything all set? Can we do it? I mean… we’re over the ocean now, right?”

“We can do it any time you’d like.” Jessica works as she speaks, introducing Stiles to Max and Delphine, the other two attendants for the rear cabin. “Lydia sent me the music, and all you need to do is get yourself up to first class once the song starts.” Jessica’s lips purse into a small moue of sympathy. “I’m sorry you were split up on the flight; Lydia told me.”

“Yeah, well, at least this way he’s not suspicious of me taking a strangely long bathroom break all by myself.” Stiles glances at the bathrooms, still thinking that while _mile high club_ sounds like a good thing, it also sounds awkward as fuck. Airplane bathrooms aren’t really known for their leg room.

His palms are sweaty; he wipes them on his jeans, tries to scrub the nerves away. “Hopefully he’s awake. So yeah. Let’s just… let’s do this thing, okay?” He touches his pocket, feels the bulge there and is reassured that he’s as ready as he’s going to get.

The speakers buzz, and the music is tinny, played from a phone sitting next to the microphone rather than something plugged into the sound system properly. But it’s still recognizable, and as Stiles listens to the words, singing them under his breath, he moves into the aisle and toward first class.

_How much pain has cracked your soul? How much love would make you whole?*_

He breathes in on one step, out on the next. His hand flexes by his side, then he shoves it into his pocket, fingers curling around the box he carries. He can do this. It’s easier than flying, easier than breathing, easier even than talking. This is about loving Jackson. It shouldn’t be hard.

Except everything about loving Jackson is _hard_. They are complicated, always have been, even before they were anything more than enemies.

“Sir, you can’t go into first class.”

An attendant stands in front of him, hand out and pressed into Stiles’s chest, keeping him from opening the curtains to go through. He looks back, tries to find Jessica or Max or Delphine, but none of them are in view. The music still crackles over the speakers, and he lifts his free hand as his other tightens in his pocket. “I have to—it’s important. I have to go forward. I just—”

He leans into the attendant and is shoved back, hard. “You _can’t_ go into first class.”

“Is there a problem?”

Air marshal.

That’s a fucking _air marshal_ standing up from a seat to his right.

“Take your hand out of your pocket, son, and show me what you’ve got there.” The air marshal’s smile is mild, but Stiles can see the steel in his eyes. He knows that look, has seen it a million times in his father’s own expression, or Parrish, or anyone else down at the Sheriff’s office. This guy means business.

And he thinks Stiles has a gun, or something else that could cause serious chaos and damage.

He pulls his hand free, holds both his hands in the air, empty of everything. “I’m not trying to make trouble,” he says quietly. “My boyfriend’s sitting in first class, and I wanted to go up and see him. Give him something.”

The air marshal’s hand is on his gun, just showing Stiles that it’s there, and everyone around them is deadly quiet. “What have you got in your pocket?”

Golem’s voice whispers in Stiles’s mind: _it’s precious, what’s in my pocketses._ He gulps back a slightly hysterical laugh and breathes in and out, fighting back the edge of a panic attack because _gun_. “It’s a box. It’s a present.” He keeps his voice as low as he can, not wanting to alert Jackson that he’s close or what he’s trying to do. “And it’s kind of time sensitive, as in, I’d like to get to Jackson before the song is over.”

There’s a flash of red in the corner of his eye, then Jessica spills into view, the air marshal flinching as she’s suddenly in his space, leaning in to whisper closely.

“You have got to be kidding me,” the air marshal grumbles. He leaves the gun where it is, raises his hand and waves towards the curtain. “Go through.” When Stiles hesitates, he raises his voice. “I’m not going to shoot you. _Go_.”

Stiles shoves the curtain aside and pushes through, scanning the rows to look for Jackson and hoping he’s awake. He spots him sitting with his head tilted, a frown marring his forehead as he listens to the tinny-sounding music that’s getting close to the end of the song. Stiles takes a step toward him, stumbles and pushes off a seat to steady himself, landing across Jackson’s lap. “Um. Hey.”

Jackson looks at him, and glances back at the curtain that’s just being pulled closed. “What are you doing up here, Stiles?”

“Visiting. I’ve got permission, don’t worry, they aren’t going to throw me out. And I don’t have any ulterior mile high motives.” Okay, lie, and he knows Jackson can probably hear the way his heartbeat is jackrabbiting in his chest. When Jackson places a hand against Stiles’s chest, he makes a face. “Okay, I don’t have any _sexual_ ulterior mile high motives.”

Stiles turns, apologizes to the woman sitting next to Jackson because he knows he’s impinging on her space. He really hopes the romanticism of the moment appeals to her before she makes him get off of Jackson’s lap. Or maybe he should use the aisle, kneel properly.

“Out with it.” Jackson nudges him. “What’s got you so nervous you’re actually speechless?”

“Marry me.” Stiles winces, digs in his pocket and pulls out the box. “I had a speech prepared, and Lydia helped me get in touch with a friend of hers from college who’s an attendant on this flight. It’s supposed to be over the ocean, when we’re halfway between the U.S. and London, but I’m not sure I got the timing right. And the song—you _know_ the song.” Stiles has sung it to Jackson before, murmured the words into his skin because so much of it is so right. “I just… I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Jackson. If I could go back and tell high school me that someday you’d stop being a complete ass and we’d be together, I would. He wouldn’t believe me, but I’d try.”

Jackson is silent. Scarily silent, staring at the box Stiles holds that’s still closed. Stiles pops it open, shows the two matching rings that are both perfectly sized. “Neither of us is the girl,” Stiles explains. “But I figured there had to be a ring in there somewhere for a good proposal. So. Yeah. One for each of us.” He licks his lips, stares at Jackson. “You haven’t said yes,” he whispers, worried.

“I haven’t said _no_ , either.” Jackson’s arms go tight around Stiles, a slow breath shuddering in his chest. He buries his face against Stiles’s neck, tongue darting out to lap at his throat. “I want to hear your speech,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Right. Speech.” Stiles can’t remember it, not word for word, not the one he slaved over. He’s written so many things by now and this one—he’ll just have to wing it. So he closes his eyes, turns so that he can lean his forehead on the top of Jackson’s head, creating a small circle of space just for them.

“I hated you for so long,” he whispers. “You were mean to Scott when we were five. You gave us shit all through middle school and high school, and you dated the most amazing girl that I thought I was in love with. I hated you for having everything I wanted. Then… things happened.” He can’t say _kanima_ and _nogitsune_ here on the airplane, but he knows Jackson knows what he means. “Everything was different, and we became friends.” Friends isn’t the right word, more like _anchors_ , or _buoys_ —things to keep each other afloat when it felt like they were going to drown in the aftermath. Stiles inhales roughly, presses a kiss to Jackson’s temple before he speaks again.

“This came later, though. I still remember when Lydia told me to just go for it, and I had no idea what she was talking about, and she told me that everyone was getting sick of our snarky foreplay. But we’ve always been snarky. _Always_. And I realized then that maybe I wasn’t angry that you were dating Lydia all that time ago. Maybe I was angry that she was dating _you_. So I kissed you. And we argued, and we broke up three times and we swore it was just sex, and now it’s been what, five years since that first kiss? It’s been _five years_ , Jackson, and we’ve got jobs and lives and we share an apartment and a bank account and all I can think is that I want that forever. I want _you_ forever. So marry me, okay?”

Stiles can barely breathe when he’s done, his throat tight, chest closing off. He feels the word whispered on his lips, as Jackson captures his face, holds him to kiss him gently. _Yes_. _Yes. Yes._ And Stiles laughs because this is it, this is _real_ and Jackson’s hugging him, taking the rings out and it’s done.

They’re engaged.

Something on this trip finally went (mostly) right.

The woman at the window gets up, claiming a need for the bathroom, but Stiles suspects she’s just giving them some time to sit together. He stays with Jackson, enjoying a small bottle of champagne that they share, compliments of the airline, until he is shooed back to his own seat for the meal service.

They’ve still got a few hours before they get to Paris, but Stiles can finally relax and enjoy the flight. Now he’s sure that it’s going to be the perfect vacation.

#

Stiles’s phone buzzes as soon as he steps out of the jetway and turns it back on. He navigates by staying close to Jackson, dragged along in his wake without touching him, just letting the aura pull him down the walkway. It’s easy to tune out the voices around him, most of them speaking French with other languages sprinkled through like confetti.

It takes him a moment to realize Jackson has stopped, standing there, arms crossed.

“Are you texting _again_?” Jackson asks, and Stiles swipes his screen blank, shoves his phone in his pocket so that Jackson can’t possibly read what he was reading.

“Lydia wants to know how it went,” he says, and it’s not a lie, not exactly. It just leaves out half the conversation, and it doesn’t mention Allison or Scott or his dad, or anything else that’s part of the remaining plans. It’s easy to blame everything on Lydia right now, and Stiles grins. “She wants pictures. She says proof or it didn’t happen.”

He grabs playfully at Jackson’s hand, and there’s a moment when he sees Jackson relent, irritation melting into fondness with rolled eyes and a low growl. Jackson presses Stiles back against the wall, the backpack uncomfortable and in the way but he doesn’t really care because Jackson is nosing at his throat, nipping in ways that Stiles is positive will leave reddened marks. Stiles winds his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jackson’s neck, meets his mouth with opening lips, welcoming the depth of his kiss. Stiles is still taller, but Jackson seems larger with werewolf attitude, and it’s definitely not a _bad_ thing to let him take control.

Well, unless you think about the public space.

And the fact that Stiles’s phone is buzzing frantically in his pocket.

Jackson pulls back, eyes flashing briefly blue as he nips at Stiles’s lip, and for one brief second Stiles is tempted to throw all the plans out the window and drag Jackson into the nearest dark corner. Jackson smirks as if he knows _exactly_ what Stiles is thinking (who does he think he’s fooling? Jackson _definitely_ know what he’s thinking). But Jackson just grabs Stiles’s left hand with his own, tangling their fingers together with the thick platinum rings displayed. “Take a picture,” he says. “And then put your phone away. You’re on vacation with _me_ and you are _not_ bringing the rest of the pack along for the ride.”

Guilt, for a fleeting moment, because well… maybe Stiles kind of already _did_ that. But Jackson doesn’t know, and can’t know, and he hopes Jackson thinks his heart is racing thinking about hotel sex and not about lying. Because yeah. 

He pulls his phone out and takes a quick snap of their linked hands, the flash glinting off the rings. He takes a moment to apply a soft, fuzzy, romantic filter, then sends it out to his pack group chat—the one place that he knows Jackson is included and it also won’t have any conversations he doesn’t want Jackson to see. _Engaged! Date and location TBD, invites will be in the mail_.

Lies, lies, so many lies, but it’s worth it. Stiles _knows_ it’s worth it.

Of course his phone pings back immediately, and Jackson twitches slightly. “You lead,” Stiles tells him. “Turn your phone off, you can see the conversation later.” He brings Jackson’s hand to his mouth, sucks the tip of one finger in and teases it with his tongue. “Seriously, I’ll handle the PR, you handle navigating in a place where I don’t speak a word of the language other than _oui_ and _non_.” It takes a moment, but Jackson slowly tugs his fingers from where they are joined and starts moving, Stiles keeping up easily and letting Jackson break a path for him through the crowds while Stiles texts.

 _I thought I wasn’t going to be able to pull it off. There was an AIR MARSHAL_.

That deserves the capslock, Stiles is positive of it, as he sends it to the other group chat, all the while keeping little notes pinging to the chat Jackson is included on. He barely pays attention as they sift through customs, mumbling all the right things while Jackson grumbles next to him.

 _But you managed to do it without bringing the plane down. I’m proud of you_.

He smiles at Lydia’s replying, scowling faintly when he gets _I’m shocked. Dude, did you really have an air marshal pull a gun on you?_ from Isaac.

Stiles can’t help but reply, telling them the details of how it went, splitting his attention between the two chat streams, copying and pasting in words that Jackson can see, avoiding the bits where Lydia is sending him changes in flight plans and numbers, a cell phone that’s been set up for Paris, and a message from his father.

 _Your father had to push back his plans. We will be arriving tomorrow morning and going straight to the site. Wait if we are late_.

They can’t be late. _Nothing_ can be late, this has to go perfectly. Stiles types frantically, moving slower and slower as he pushes text after text over the air to his friends, trying to get across how _important_ this is.

He doesn’t realize that he’s stopped walking until he hears Jackson yelling, “ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles looks around, doesn’t see Jackson at all. He listens for the growl and turns that direction slowly, spotting the bright blue flash of Jackson’s eyes before he sees the man himself.

He wisely manages to get his phone _locked_ and shoved in his pocket before he catches up with Jackson. “Sorry, sorry, you know how they get. I was trying to get Lydia to go over and see my dad.”

Only a partial lie; he’s pretty sure Lydia will be picking his father up to get to the airport shortly since they are obviously not already waiting to get on a plane. Stiles assumes she’ll share the engagement picture with him then.

“We’re in _Paris_ ,” Jackson tells him, voice low and dark. “We are on vacation, and you’re texting the pack. _Stop_ bringing them with us. _Stop_ paying more attention to them than to me.”

“Jealous?” Stiles moves in close, gets his arms around Jackson and holds on, kissing his nose. “I’m with you, Jackson. I’m here, and we’re going to have a fantastic time. I don’t know about you, but I took a nap on the plane, so as soon as we get our luggage, I’m ready to get to the hotel, have a fantastic breakfast, and go see all the romantic sites.” He cocks his head, waggles his eyebrows. “Or lock ourselves in our room for the rest of the day.”

It’s not working.

Jackson’s brow is still furrowed, and he has yet to relax in Stiles’s arms. “I’m not in the mood,” he says tightly, and Stiles’s heart falls because _since when_ is _Jackson_ —the original hornywolf—not in the mood for _sex_?

 _Fuck_.

“Fine. I’ve been a shit boyfriend. Except for the proposal.”

“Which means now you’ve been a shit fiancé, except for the proposal,” Jackson grumbles. He relaxes in by inch, head against Stiles’s shoulder. “Just… promise me to leave your phone off for a while. Be with _me_ , not the pack. We’ll see them again in a week, when we get home. Isn’t Scott picking us up at the airport?”

“Actually, I think he said something about a romantic weekend with Isaac and Allison,” Stiles admits, because that _is_ what they’re planning on doing. Just in _Paris_ rather than San Francisco. “They have that stupid mom-mobile instead of a normal car so we’ll all fit to get home. And yes, I know, we’ll see the pack again. I just… I’m sorry.” He has more excuses, more reasons that he really does need to talk to them to make sure everything works out. But right now the immediacy of Jackson being angry is far more important. He cradles Jackson’s face in his hands, kisses him slowly, letting it burn until Jackson teases back and it threatens to get out of control for a public place.

“I’m still not in the mood,” Jackson mutters, and Stiles laughs because that’s _his_ Jackson, sulking and grumpy, and trying to be in charge.

“Maybe after we get to the hotel.” Stiles threads his fingers with Jackson’s and tugs, Jackson pulling back when he heads in the wrong direction. Somehow they get to the luggage cartel, already churning and filled with luggage, many of the passengers gone by now. Stiles quickly grabs his suitcase and stands back with it, while Jackson tries to find his. The bags on the belt are claimed by other passengers, one by one, until only a few lonely pieces of luggage still travel around, and Jackson’s suitcase is nowhere to be seen.

Stiles has a sinking feeling about this. “I think they lost your—”

“Do _not_ say _I told you so_ ,” Jackson snarls, and Stiles takes a step back, his hands up. “I’m going to go put in a claim,” Jackson grumbles. “You stay here, and when I get back, we’ll go to the hotel.”

 _And not have sex_. Stiles doesn’t need Jackson to say it, he can hear it in his voice. This is just one more thing in the _bad_ column for how this trip is going, and Stiles needs to turn it around quickly, or the big surprise at the end isn’t going go well at all.

#

“You know, I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower before,” Jackson points out as Stiles fidgets with his camera.

“I know, but I hadn’t, and now I have.” Stiles manages to get the camera on his phone arranged to his satisfaction, and holds it up, his other arm around Jackson’s waist as they lean together. “Smile, Jacks.” He grins just in time for the click of the camera, but when he sees the image, it’s completely ruined by Jackson’s flashing eyes. “C’mon, you _know_ how to get around—”

“Excuse me.”

Stiles stutters to a stop, quickly swallowing the phrase _wolfy flashing eyes_ before the words can spill out in front of strangers. Attractive strangers, three of them, all female and standing just a little too close, a camera held out in offering. “Hi,” he says, and one of them giggles.

“Would you like us to take a picture for you?” Jackson offers, taking the camera easily from the brunette’s hand. She smiles, pulling her friends in close, and they pose and giggle while Jackson takes several shots as if it’s a fashion shoot. Stiles sees more hip and butt and boob over the five minute photo session than he has in ages. 

Not that he _wants_ to see that. He’s perfectly happy with _ass_ and _dick_ , but maybe Jackson… sometimes he has to wonder. He knows Jackson loves him, but it’s tough to remember when he sees him surrounded by attractive women, all gathered close to look at the tiny images on the back of the camera as Jackson makes sure they don’t need more pictures taken.

It’s enough to make a guy insecure.

“They were flirting,” Stiles says dryly when Jackson finally comes back to him.

“So was I,” Jackson admits easily. “It’s only flirting, Stiles. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It probably does to _them_.” Stiles is pretty sure that if Jackson had crooked his finger and whispered threesome that at least one of them would have cheerfully followed them back to the hotel, then managed to throw Stiles out so she got Jackson to herself. “Come on, let’s try that again, without you staring straight at the lens and blinding anyone who sees the picture later.” 

He holds the camera out to one side but he looks at Jackson, his free hand on Jackson’s cheek. He holds his gaze, tries to let his heart show in his eyes as the camera clicks.

The picture is crap, of course, showing the tops of their heads and the Eiffel Tower in the background. Three more tries gets him another bright flash from Jackson’s eyes, a picture of their throats (attractive, artsy, but not what he was going for) and one picture that he thinks might be Jackson’s shoulder but he’s not sure.

“Let me handle this.” Jackson takes his phone in hand and wanders off, approaching a group of both men and women, about their age. He speaks rapidly, and even from the distance Stiles can hear the slippery sounds of French words that he doesn’t understand. The conversation goes back and forth until one of them men breaks from the pack, patting Jackson’s shoulder as they both return to Stiles.

“Henri is going to take our picture,” Jackson says, leaning back against the wall. He’s the perfect picture of a model; all he needs is a wind machine ruffling through his hair.

Stiles settles next to him, arms crossed, waiting for Jackson’s hand on his back, or some acknowledgement that they’re together. He glares at Jackson, gets an eyebrow lift in return and a nod to look at the camera lens. Henri calls something out that Stiles doesn’t understand, and Jackson answers him with liquid words that do everything for Stiles’s dick and at the same time make his heart go cold.

“This is not a very romantic picture,” he mutters.

“Relax,” Jackson orders. “We’ll have more opportunities and more pictures.” He leans a little closer to Stiles, and it lets Stiles relax, dropping an arm around Jackson’s shoulders.

He dimly hears the fake click of the camera and more words in French that make no sense. Jackson moves as Henri speaks, surging up to wrap his arms around Stiles, gathering him in close and kissing him like there’s no one else in the world around him.

Stiles just clings and goes with it; he’s not going to give this up, ever.

Jackson finally pulls back and Stiles’s lips feel bruised, aching for more. He barely glances over when Henri gives the phone back and Jackson slips it into his pocket. “What did Henri say to get me that?” Stiles has to ask.

“Something about just how pert your ass is,” Jackson murmurs, stealing another kiss. “So I made sure he knows that you’re mine.”

“So you can flirt, and I can’t?” It seems unfair, but then, Stiles doesn’t really want either of them flirting with other people. He wants high romance and sexy nights. He wants to be here with only him and Jackson, right up until the moment when things get a little more complicated tomorrow. But those are complications under his control; they aren’t hot French men like Henri.

“Learn French, then you can flirt.” Jackson nuzzles his throat and Stiles knows he’s leaving a mark on his pale skin. “Until then, I’ll protect you from the French rogues.”

“And who’s going to protect you from the vixens?” Stiles asks. He feels lighter now, his heart easier as they start to move, hands linked and fingers tangled. “We’re going inside now. The website claims that there are romantic pockets to explore, plus you’re going to show me all that stamina when we climb up to the second floor. If I get tired on the stairs, I expect a piggyback ride.”

Jackson laughs, and Stiles relaxes slowly, the day back on track. “What makes you think I’m going to carry you?” Jackson asks. “You’ve survived Finstock. You can make it up 700 stairs.”

“704,” Stiles corrects him, and while he’s pretty sure he can make it up the stairs, he also knows it’d be more fun to have Jackson carry him. And that in the end, Jackson wouldn’t mind showing off. “We have to go all the way to the top if we want to toast our engagement with French champagne while looking down on Paris.” Because that is apparently a thing, and even if the champagne is as expensive as fuck, it’s _romantic_ and Stiles is going to do it.

There’s a line for the elevator, but fewer people seem to head to the stairs once they get inside. Stiles can’t blame them; it’s a daunting task, something like the equivalent of climbing to the top of a 60 floor building (yes, he calculated it, he wants to know what he’s getting himself into). He grabs Jackson’s hand and they start out bright and fresh, fingers tangled together as they make their way up.

It doesn’t last long. Stiles starts to draw behind a little, lagging while werewolf-fresh muscles keep Jackson moving more easily. Jackson jogs up and back, going twice as far while Stiles tries to make his way. And it’s not like they have to rush; the champagne will still be there when they get to the top. Plus there will probably be a line for the elevator to the top, right? And it’s a good view along the way.

Jackson’s a solid twenty or more stairs ahead of Stiles, leaning against the railing to look at something. When Stiles’s pocket buzzes, he decides it’s a perfect time to take a break, sitting right down in the middle of the stairs, budging over only when someone needs to step by him.

It won’t take long, just a few quick exchanges with Lydia before she has to go silent to get on a plane. She claims she’s paying for in-flight internet and might be in touch, but Stiles knows she’ll just sleep because it’s going to be a long day as soon as they get there. He checks in on his dad and the reservation for tomorrow and Lydia says everything’s going well. She gives him a phone number to call and let everyone know that he’s in Paris, the rest of the group is arriving soon, and everything is ready to go.

Except for the part where honestly, how is Stiles going to make a phone call? Or get a phone with actual phone call privileges here in France? He snorts when Lydia tells him to just have the concierge take care of it, as if it’ll be that easy to get away from Jackson.

Wait.

Where’s Jackson?

Stiles comes to his feet quickly, nearly braining himself in the process. He spots Jackson even further up the stairs in the middle of a conversation with the three women who stepped over Stiles a while back. A fairly intimate conversation, where one of them is leaning on him, her hand touching his chest, and another has arm wrapped around his.

Stiles climbs the steps to reach them far faster than he’d been managing before, his breath rough in his chest when he arrives. He can’t understand a word they’re saying; Jackson is nearly fluent in French and Stiles barely learned Spanish. He’s not sure Jackson even notices him arrive.

He clears his throat, and Jackson glances over, makes a small expression of apology and says something else. The girls all laugh brightly, lean in to touch his shoulder or kiss his cheek before they pass on by.

“You work fast,” Stiles grumbles.

“You got lost in your phone again,” Jackson counters. “How’s Lydia?”

“Asking me about wedding plans already.” Stiles smiles thinly. “You know she’s going to take out all her frustrations on me, since she’s not planning on getting married for a while, and Allison refuses to choose Isaac or Scott and it’s not exactly legal for her to marry both. If I’m really lucky, I’ll manage to avoid having to wear the perfect wedding gown.”

It works to disarm Jackson and he snorts softly at the idea of Stiles in an ornate gown. “You’d look gorgeous. You have the legs for it.”

“You just like me in lace.” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and leans in, kissing Jackson quickly. “No more texts, I promise. But I’m also not sure I’m going to make it to the next floor. How about that piggyback ride?” He leans in, presses his lips to Jackson’s cheek and he _might_ be trying to leave his scent there, if scent mattered to him as a human. It bothers him to see other people touching Jackson, people who aren’t a part of the pack. He chews on his lip, says quietly, “And yeah, maybe it’s my way of wanting to get my arms around you.”

“Possessive.” Jackson smirks, and Stiles can see him preening, which is perfect.

“Exactly.” Stiles moves and Jackson shifts with him, and then Stiles is on his back, pressing close, mouth teasing at the nape of Jackson’s neck before his boyfriend swats at him for the distraction. Stiles points up the stairs and yells out, “To the champagne!”

They do make it there eventually, and the champagne at the top of the Eiffel Tower is good, but tasting it from Jackson’s lips is better.

#

“Stiles, I’m _tired_.” Jackson leans against the wall of the elevator, features contorted as he surpasses a yawn. “Yes, even werewolves can be exhausted after walking all over Paris. I know you want to do something good for dinner but I don’t have anything to wear and maybe we should just get room service and pass out.”

The door dings open and Stiles grabs Jackson’s hand, tugs him from the elevator and into the hall. He presses him back against the door of their room, brushes a light kiss against his lips. “Let’s just go in the room and get cleaned up a little, and I think you’ll like my plans, once I tell you about them.”

“Tell me about them here.” Jackson makes it an order, but it comes out with a petulant tone that Stiles recognizes. He’s about to end up with the toddler form of Jackson Whittemore on his hands if he’s not careful.

It’s amazing how ridiculous Jackson gets when he’s tired. Considering that Stiles would expect a supernatural being not to get so _exhausted_.

“In the room.” Stiles reaches past Jackson to swipe the keycard, nudging the door open so they both spill into the room. Stiles flips the light switch, and Jackson stops in the entryway as the door closes behind them.

“You’ve been spending my money,” Jackson says, voice low, and Stiles has to laugh.

“I saved up for this trip, Jacks, and I haven’t even _begun_ to spoil you yet.” Stiles tugs Jackson into the main room to see the spread laid out for them, delivered by room service while they were out. Nothing complicated or heavy, nothing that requires utensils other than maybe a glass or a knife. Vegetables, fruits, pieces of meat and cheese. He requested a selection of local items, all the best quality, and of course champagne that cost him a week’s paycheck. “Strip, get in bed. I’ll bring dinner to you.”

“And champagne.”

Stiles laughs. “Yes, and champagne.” He starts with that, popping the cork with a quick twist, ignoring the way it spills slightly over his hand. He pours two glasses, and by the time he brings them to the bed, Jackson is already there, lying across it, naked except for his tented boxers. Stiles can just barely see the tip of his dick peeking through the slit in his boxers, and when Jackson catches him looking, he palms his erection, stroking it slowly through the fabric.

Stiles crawls onto the bed next to Jackson, offers him a glass. “I thought you wanted dinner.”

“I want you more.” Jackson holds his glass near Stiles’s glass, touches his cheek with his free hand. “To a perfect first day as fiancé and fiancé.”

“To the first day of the rest of our lives together,” Stiles replies, carefully touching the rim of his glass to Jackson’s. He doesn’t look away as he sips at the golden liquid, bubbles tickling his tongue. It’s _good_ , which is handy since he paid a good amount of money for it. And it gives him _ideas_.

Jackson’s fingers drift across Stiles’s cheek, his thumb stroking the line of his lower lip. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Jackson points out, tugging Stiles closer to kiss him.

Stiles tastes the champagne on his lips, sweet and tart all at once. They’ve been kissing all day, but this is the first time they’ve truly been _alone_ since they got in the car for Scott to take them to the airport. It’s also the last chance they’re going to have before Stiles makes everything go haywire the next day, and he wants to take advantage of it.

Like _right now_ advantage.

He pulls back, sets his champagne flute on the nightstand. “You’re right. Let me fix that.” Stiles strips off his t-shirt, then shoves down his jeans and boxers in one go, leaving his half-hard cock bobbing between them. Jackson touches the head lightly, then wraps his hand around it and tugs, and Stiles follows willingly. “That’s not a handle,” Stiles points out. “Or a leash.”

“Seems to be working just fine.” Jackson lies back, manages to get Stiles to straddle him, settling in hip to hip. A slow smirk draws the corners of his lips up as he continues to stroke Stiles to full hardness. “I could get used to this view.”

“You see it often enough.” Stiles rests his hands against Jackson’s chest, just barely touches his nipples with his thumbs. He loves how sensitive Jackson is, the way one little flick has him arching up under him, moaning softly. “And you’re going to see it every day for the rest of our lives.” He leans forward, kisses Jackson’s chin, his nose, his forehead. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s almost surprised when Jackson obeys, eyes flickering closed, breath even. Stiles prays this doesn’t backfire with Jackson falling asleep, but he’s pretty sure that no one would be able to sleep through what he has planned. And if he does, well, then, Stiles has _definitely_ lost his touch.

Stiles moves just enough to get Jackson’s boxers off, tossing them to the side and leaving them both completely naked. Then he picks up his neglected glass and dips one finger in it, sliding it along Jackson’s lips to leave a champagne trail behind. Jackson’s tongue flicks out, licking droplets and skin, and Stiles sighs. “I love you,” he whispers, just before he tilts the glass, pours the chilled liquid across Jackson’s chest, down the line to his crotch and across his cock.

Jackson whines, but Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to complain, leaning down to chase droplets with his tongue, flicking across a taut nipple before he takes it in his mouth and makes sure to suck it dry. He drips more champagne in a circle of droplets around his other nipple, then circles that as well, lapping all around it until Jackson mutters _Stiles_ and he obliges, sucking at it, nipping until Jackson whines again.

“I’d say you taste like a million bucks, but I couldn’t afford the really expensive stuff.” Stiles drips it down his chest, chases droplets into the thin line of hair leading to his crotch, teases at his belly button until Jackson huffs a short laugh. 

“You can’t afford to buy me.” Jackson’s eyes are still closed, his head back and neck arched, bared to Stiles if he wants to lick it. 

“That’s why you give yourself to me.” Stiles dribbles cold champagne along Jackson’s dick, watches the way the droplets slide along the surface. He licks at the head, swirls around it with his tongue, teases along the vein. He feels the way Jackson inhales, knows he’s about to make a retort, and he swallows him down to the root, taking him deep into his throat.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Stiles grins around his cock, puts his hands on Jackson’s hips and raises up, then lowers his head again. His hips lie against Jackson’s leg, his aching dick just barely brushing skin. He doesn’t let Jackson fuck his mouth, but he makes sure to take him hard and fast, to do all the work for him until Jackson is whimpering, quivering, hovering on the edge. Stiles pulls off with a pop, sits back to look at Jackson.

He loves the flush of his skin, the way he can see the beginnings of claws and sideburns, knowing the wolf is close to the surface and held at bay. “I want us to do this together,” he says softly, sliding back into place to slot their hips together, his dick brushing against the heat of Jackson’s erection. “Open your eyes, Jackson, I want you with me for this part, okay?”

He looks down, meets Jackson’s gaze. His eyes are more pupil than anything else, darkened with hunger as Jackson drives his hips up, pushing into the circle of Stiles’s fingers that hold both of their dicks. “Fuck,” Jackson whispers. “Fuck, Stiles. You feel so good.”

They need lube next time. Plenty of lube and plenty of time for stretching and actual intercourse, but right now, this’ll do. Stiles jerks them off, going quickly, spitting in his hand for lubrication. It doesn’t take long for Jackson to reach the edge, body bowing as he groans through his completion, fingers tight and bruising on Stiles’s hips. Stiles keeps jerking both their dicks through the orgasm, and it’s the look on Jackson’s face that gets him off, the way his eyes are soft while he reaches completion, the way he doesn’t need to say the words, because Stiles already knows that he loves him.

He lies down next to Jackson, head pillowed on his shoulder, knowing they’ll be stuck together in the morning if they don’t clean up. “I’ll get a washcloth,” he offers, but Jackson’s arm around his shoulder tightens, keeping him in place.

“Don’t go anywhere, not when I’ve finally got you where I want you.” Jackson nuzzles Stiles’s cheek, nips at his throat, and Stiles lets him mark him, show his wolfly dominance in the aftermath of some pretty damned good sex.

Finally getting the chance to just be quiet and romantic makes Stiles feel guilty about how bad everything’s gone so far. “I’m sorry I’ve been texting so much,” he whispers, hand making circles on Jackson’s chest. 

“It’s okay, I know you’re a dick.” Jackson closes his blunt teeth over Stiles’s throat, holds him carefully for a long moment before he lets go. “So am I. Sorry I was a dick about the shit with the plane.”

“You are _never_ good with anything that has to do with flying. And the plane wasn’t all bad.” Stiles touches Jackson’s ring, then shifts so he can knock their rings together.

The room phone rings, and Stiles considers ignoring it, but Jackson leans over him to reach for it, pulling the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?” There’s a pause, and Jackson’s brow furrows. “It went _where_? Fuck. Fine. Yeah, late tomorrow morning. That’ll be fine.” He drops the phone onto the handset with a grumble and falls back into the pillows. “My luggage took a vacation in Puerto Vallarta. Where the fuck is that?”

“Popular cruise destination, I think.” 

“How the fuck do you know that?”

Stiles laughs at the confused and almost angry expression marring Jackson’s face. He smooths along his furrowed brows until they relax. “ _The Love Boat_ ,” he says, which doesn’t seem to explain anything. “Old TV show that my mom loved, and when she got sick we used to watch reruns together. She said love could conquer everything, and that every single person had someone out there that they were meant to be with. She said I’d find my love somewhere unexpected, just like the people on the show.”

“Which took place in Puerto Vallarta?” Because of course, Jackson missed the point of what he’s trying to say.

“Sometimes, in part.” Stiles hums under his breath, the lyrics of the old theme song running through his head. “I guess your luggage wanted some excitement. I’m just glad that you’re with me, even if your luggage isn’t. We can buy you something new tomorrow, okay?”

He has a plan for that anyway, it’ll work out. When Jackson drags him in for a kiss, Stiles goes happily, lazily necking until they fall asleep in a tangled heap.

#

Stiles feels a little guilty about sneaking out in the morning, but he needs to do something and he can’t put it off. He writes a quick note to tell Jackson that he’s going out to get something for breakfast and he’ll bring it back soon. If he’s lucky, Jackson will sleep late enough that he won’t realize how long Stiles is gone.

He stops at the concierge desk in the lobby to get directions, thanking him for placing a call after Stiles slipped him a note the night before when he and Jackson came in before dinner. The concierge merely smiles politely, inquires after his evening, and sends him on his way.

The place isn’t far. Stiles chose this particular hotel for exactly that reason—he wanted to be able to walk to the venue he’d chosen and not have to try to navigate public transportation when he can’t speak the language. This early in the morning the streets are still quiet, although he can see cafés already open and smells fresh bread on the air. His stomach rumbles hungrily, but he can’t stop on the way, not when he knows that there’s a basket waiting for him at his destination.

He finds the place on an old cobblestone street, a stone building that looks out of place among the other wooden structures. Stiles pushes the door open and inhales the rich scent of dark coffee mixed with fresh bread and something sweet. If this is even a hint of what dinner will be like, it’s going to be amazing.

“Stiles!” Lydia crashes into him, her arms wrapped around him as she hugs him hard. Her hair is twisted up into a messy bun, tendrils dangling to frame her face. There are small bags under her eyes and it’s obvious she hasn’t slept well or retouched her makeup, but she’s still beautiful in his eyes.

He kisses her cheeks and laughs as her eyebrows go up. “Gone native already?” she asks.

“I’m not the native—Jackson’s the one flirting with everyone in their native language,” he says dryly, expression softening when he spots his father off to one side, hears the carefully spoken French words as the Sheriff struggles to speak to the chef.

“Don’t worry, you know he loves you best.” Lydia gives him one last hug, then draws him further in. “Come on in, your dad’s got everything under control and I want you to meet Ekaterina.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very French name.” Stiles goes along with her, trusting that everything’s going to be perfect, whether he sees it or not.

“That is because it is Russian.” The woman is diminutive, but Stiles can still see the outline of muscles under her chef’s coat. Her name is in script over her left breast, so he can’t possibly miss that this is, indeed, Ekaterina. Her dark hair is pulled back in a thick bun at the nape of her neck, and her hazel eyes flash yellow once when she sees him. “I may not be French, but I am the best pastry chef in France. Christopher Argent insisted that I handle your wedding myself.”

“Ah.” Because there is the connection back to the Argent lines in France, now settled in a truce with the werewolves as long as they behave. Stiles offers a hand; Ekaterina’s grip is strong, catching when he winces. “I’m not the werewolf half of this couple,” he reminds her.

“I realized that when your eyes did not respond. He is blue-eyed, yes?” She says it as if it is no matter, and Stiles _really_ hopes it isn’t.

“Yes, thanks to a circuitous route to his wolfliness and _holy crap_ , is that our cake?” It’s fucking _amazing_. Four tiers with some little side pieces that Stiles can’t even begin to describe other than that they look vaguely like cupcakes balanced delicately where he could just reach out and pluck one off. He doesn’t realize that his hand is out to do just that until Lydia smacks his hand back, and he shoves it in his pocket.

“The top is chocolate, right?” He has to make sure everything is perfect; nothing can go wrong with this part of the trip.

Ekaterina’s expression is sharp and insulted. “Of course. Chocolate for the top, and we will package it for you so that you can have it shipped back home to eat on your anniversary, as is tradition. And the little ones—they are chocolate, too, with the raspberry cream that you requested for your fiancé. You will cut one of those for your ceremony. And of course, we have the sweets for those who do not wish cake, or who wish more than cake.”

There is an entire glassed in case laid out with treats, so many things that Stiles just wants to dig in and eat right now. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t had breakfast yet, and that makes Ekaterina and Lydia both laugh.

“I have a basket for you.” Ekaterina brings it up from behind the display case: a traditional picnic basket, complete with a red checked lining just peeking out around the edges. Her smile is sharp. “It seemed only right for you to bring a basket of goodies to your wolf, yes?”

“Hah.” It’s not the first time the joke has been made, considering the number of human/wolf relationships in their pack, not to mention Stiles’s favorite red hoodie. Stiles goes to lift the lid and peek inside, but Lydia pats his hand and Ekaterina makes a low growl, so he lets it be. He’ll discover the contents with Jackson later. He relaxes back slowly, and remembers his manners. “Thank you, Ekaterina. I’m sure that the food is going to be amazing.”

“Ekaterina is a pastry chef and handling all of the desserts. For the main meal, the chef’s name is Michel, and we’re having a small buffet,” Lydia tells him. “Essentially, he’ll be serving a meal family style, and I’ve already apprised him of any particular dietary restrictions we have. He is aware of the nature of our guests, and has planned accordingly for portion size.”

Stiles nods, although he has a feeling that with the small group, there will be _plenty_ left over. He hopes that it either packs well for shipping, or that there is somewhere that he can donate it to feed the hungry. The cake is going with him, no matter what. Possibly in a doggy bag for eating back in the hotel room over the rest of the vacation.

Honeymoon.

By the time this day is done, this is going to be his _honeymoon_.

The simple word rocks through him, leaving him shaken, breath tight in his lungs. Wedding. He’s planning a wedding. Without talking to Jackson. Who is either going to love it or hate it and _oh fuck_. “What if he breaks up with me for planning this without him?” The words come out in a squeak, barely enough air to say them. “Fuck, Lydia, what if he hates it? What if this is all wrong, if I’m going to fast? What if—”

“Sh.” She shushes him with a fingertip to his lips. “Stiles, you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t all in and over your head, moving faster than the speed of light. He’s going to love it. And if he doesn’t, I will ensure that he waits until after the wedding before he says anything. Because I _know_ he wants to be married to you, and Jackson is impatient. He won’t want to wait any more than you do. This will save him the trouble of convincing you to elope back in Beacon Hills.”

“Hah, yeah, because instead of running off with him on my own I’ve brought along all our friends who he told me to stop talking to and leave behind and not bring them on vacation with me.” Stiles’s smile is weak, but the breath is coming more easily now. “It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

“It’s going to be _perfect_.” Lydia meets his gaze and he stares at her, breathing when she breathes until he feels his chest ease. She smiles and pats his cheek. “There you go. Now, you need to know that there will be paperwork to sign when Jackson arrives. Danny has worked his magic, and thanks to his efforts along with a particular member of Ekaterina’s pack, you are legally able to marry in France and we have the papers to ensure that it is legally binding back in California as well. Did you bring your passport?” 

Stiles reaches into his pocket, producing both his own and Jackson’s. He hopes that Jackson doesn’t go looking for it later and panic when it seems to be missing.

“Good.” Lydia slips them both into her purse. “I’ll hold onto these so we can make sure everything is cleared and ready for you. I need you to be here a half hour before the ceremony.”

“Wait, why?” That’s a big wrench in his plans, because how the hell is Stiles going to make this a surprise if he’s supposed to get here before Jackson?

“You need to meet with the man who will perform the ceremony.” Lydia’s tone is perfectly patient. “Stiles, we’ve been over this. It will be a civil ceremony, and I already have the information that you gave me, but without a rehearsal, we will need you to go over the final details immediately before the ceremony occurs. Please tell me you have a plan for how to get Jackson here?”

Stiles laughs slightly, and shakes his head. “No. No plan. I was just planning on taking him on a romantic walk into the side streets of Paris and then whoops, let’s just check out this little place and see what it’s like and _surprise_.”

“A romantic walk while wearing couture.” Lydia stares at the ceiling. “Heaven help me, and _you_ are the one who likes to plan. Tell him you need to do something for a surprise— _truth_. Give him the suit, distract him with silk and a designer name. Ask him to meet you and give him the address. Send him for a massage in the meantime and you will come down here and finalize arrangements. When Jackson arrives, we whisk him into the back and you go down on one knee and propose all over again, or however you plan on telling him that the wedding is tonight.”

Stiles has some ideas about that, but most of them don’t involve an audience. In fact, most of them require privacy that he’s pretty sure they aren’t going to get. So he doesn’t think about it just yet.

“When is everyone else getting here?” he asks instead.

“Scott, Isaac, and Allison will be here in two hours, and Danny sends his regrets—something came up with his grandmother and he was on a plane late last night to Hawaii.” Lydia’s expression gentles. “I’ve met his grandmother and she’s as strong as the volcano on the island, so I’m sure she’ll pull through. He wishes he could Skype with us to attend, but he can’t, so he sent a message to Jackson which you can give to him after the ceremony.”

“Right.” It’s real now. It’s all too very very real, and Stiles’s palms are sweating, his feet starting to tap, and he realizes that maybe he hasn’t taken his morning dose of Adderall yet. “I should…”

“You should take the basket and the suits and go back to Jackson.” Lydia puts her hands on his shoulders, turns him around and nudges him. “Don’t wrinkle the suits, don’t get anything on them, and for God’s sake, do _not_ have sex while wearing them.” She smacks his head lightly. “I don’t need to be able to read minds to know that’s going to come up. At least I know I can trust Jackson with fine clothing.”

She helps him get the basket settled with the two garment bags across the top, then calls for a taxi to bring him back to the hotel. Stiles realizes that he hasn’t even talked to his dad and tries to get back out, and she stops him with a hand. “Don’t move.” 

She runs back inside and a moment later his dad is there, leaning in to hug him carefully around the suits. “Lydia’d kill me if I wrinkled them,” he says gruffly, and it makes Stiles smile.

“Only you would drag me halfway around the world to see you get married,” he grumbles, his touch gentle on the top of Stiles’s head. “Your mom would’ve loved this. She would’ve been right in the middle of the planning, making sure everything worked out perfectly.”

Mentioning his mom is a sure way to get the tears pricking at the corners of Stiles’s eyes, and he swallows hard. “Yeah, I know. She would’ve aimed for some kind of a theme, too, as if—” Stiles cuts himself off because he is not going to say _werewolf_ in front of the taxi driver. “As if that wasn’t enough,” he finally says.

“Seems to me that it’s plenty, kid.” The sheriff pulls back, straightening up although he doesn’t walk away. “I’ve got something for you, when you get back. Something your mom gave me a long time ago, after she got sick.” There’s a small pause, and Stiles swears he can see brightness in his father’s eyes. “Something she wrote for when you get married. So you should have that to read today.”

“Ah. Oh.” Stiles can’t find words other than that, and if he sits here thinking about it long enough he’s going to drip tears that will stain the silk of Jackson’s suit. “I um… I have to get back. Before Jackson starts panicking about where I am.” He can feel his phone buzzing, and if his friends are currently here or in the air, that’s probably Jackson asking where the hell he is. “I’ll be back soon. After all, I’m getting married, right?”

It seems surreal to say that, but yeah. He is. He’s getting married to Jackson Whittemore.

As long as everything goes as planned.

#

Stiles barely gets the room to the door open—not an easy task when he’s trying to carry the basket and two garment bags—when Jackson grabs him and yanks him inside. He’s pushed back against the wall, Jackson crowding close, nipping at his throat, snuffling along his collarbone.

“Um, down?” Stiles says, not sure if the dog joke is going to go over at this moment or not but then… oh _fuck_ , Jackson is on his knees and Stiles is still holding too many things. He tries to side step. “Not now, Jacks, just… let me put this down. Don’t ruin the couture!”

Jackson rocks back on his heels and Stiles realizes that he’s naked. Completely bare-assed naked and _honestly_ Stiles has to make time for this. There’s breakfast, and there’s couture, and then there is _naked fiancé_ and that last ranks highest on his list of things to do. All he has to do is set these few things down…

He makes it as far as the bed, and Jackson presses in close behind him, one hand sliding under his shirt as he nuzzles into his throat again. “Did you say _couture_? You don’t know anything about designers.”

“I had help.” Not a lie. “Lydia and I coordinated this before we left because I’ve got something special planned for tonight and I wanted us to look good.” Stiles manages to get everything laid out so at least it won’t wrinkle, the picnic basket abandoned on the bed as well. He grabs the hem of his shirt, nudges Jackson back just enough so he can get it off. “Let me just get caught up… huh. You stopped.” 

Jackson has the top garment bag in his hand, unzipping it so he can look inside, a faint frown marring his brow as he touches the lapel, runs his fingers along the silk lining. “This is nice.”

“It better be nice for what I spent on it,” Stiles says dryly. “That one’s mine—Lydia thought the charcoal would look good against my skin. I think you should know I talked her out of getting you a salmon pink suit. She claimed it was unique and that only someone like you could pull it off. Yours is a light grey instead, with a slightly darker grey vest.But yes, these are designer, customized after providing our measurements, and if you are not wearing underwear when you try it on, Lydia will probably somehow find out and kill you when we get back to Beacon Hills.”

Jackson peeks into the second garment bag, murmuring something under his breath before he nods and zips them both up, placing them carefully in the closet. “Not that I’m ever going to argue expensive gifts, but is there a reason for this?”

“I’d say it’s because your luggage went to Puerto Vallarta, but obviously I planned the suit ahead of time, and the luggage vacation was _not_ on the schedule.” Stiles sits on the bed, drawing his feet up and waiting for Jackson to settle in next to him. He opens the picnic basket, pulls out a checked tablecloth and lays it out before bringing out a thermos of coffee and two mugs. “We’re doing something special this afternoon, and I wanted us to look nice. Besides. Good clothes always make you horny.”

“Lydia would kill you for having sex in that suit,” Jackson points out, and Stiles smirks because yeah, he’s already heard that once today.

“Then we will have sex before we get showered and dressed,” he suggests. “Which will be after we eat breakfast. I had to wait for the suits and I am _starving_.”

“One of us is overdressed.” Jackson raises an eyebrow as he accepts a mug of coffee, looking between Stiles’s pants and his own bare legs.

“Can’t have that.” Stiles quickly sheds the rest of the clothes, trying not to think about crumbs in uncomfortable places, and takes a sip of the best coffee he’s had since leaving home. “I’m not even sure what’s in here.” He digs into the basket, surfaces with flaky, warm croissants and a baguette, along with soft butter. There’s cheese and meats, and various fruits, along with two mini strawberry tarts. “Enough for a werewolf at least.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep doing this.” Jackson covers Stiles’s hand with his own, stops him before he can pull anything else out of the basket.

“Doing what?”

Both eyebrows go up this time. “Trying to buy my affection. Spoiling me. _Yes_ , I like gifts. But I also love _you_ , Stilinski. I love the fact that you’re an asshole, I love the way you go overboard, but you don’t have to spend your entire paycheck trying to romance me on this trip. We’re in Paris, we’re together, and frankly, if we want, we could screw in the bed, on the balcony, in the shower, and never leave this room and I’d be fine. You don’t have to try to bribe me into having a good time with fine clothes and good food.”

Stiles feels something wrap around his heart, a nervous skip of a beat. “You don’t like it?”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I just say I love it when you go overboard? I’m just saying you don’t have to. We’ve already had the proposal. What the hell is going to beat that?” His thumb slides over the ring on Stiles’s finger. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

Okay. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be just fine.

Because Stiles _does_ have to try so hard. There is a part of him that still wonders if Jackson is out of his league, especially when he sees girls and guys flocking around him in Paris, all wanting to get close enough to touch.

On the other hand, Jackson is naked and here in Stiles’s bed, as well as in his life while wearing his ring. Stiles glances at the ring, and Jackson brings his hand up, links fingers with Stiles’s so that the rings lightly clink together.

“It’s just one small celebration,” Stiles says quietly. “Just one more thing, and it’s already arranged and paid for, and please just let me do this one thing. Then we can stay in bed as long as you want tomorrow, and you can pick the activities for the rest of the trip. Whatever you want to do. But I planned this, Jackson, and I promise, it’s worth it. One more afternoon of being incredibly spoiled; you can handle that, right?”

Jackson takes one of the croissants and rips off a flaky bite, holding it to Stiles’s lips. Stiles obediently opens his mouth, catching Jackson’s fingers to suck before he can retreat. And fuck, the croissant is good. Ekaterina is one hell of a chef, and he can’t wait for dessert later.

Jackson draws a finger along Stiles’s jaw, traces the line of his collarbone before dipping lower to idly tweak one nipple.

Okay, fuck that and fuck breakfast. Stiles wants dessert first.

He leans forward, brushes his lips against Jackson’s mouth, kisses him until the smirk dies away into a hungry moan, and he can feel their dicks press together when he straddles him.

“The bed is covered in picnic,” Stiles murmurs, head falling back while Jackson mouths at his throat, sucking marks that Stiles knows are going to show in the pictures later and he really just doesn’t care. “Did you say something about a balcony?”

Jackson stands, and Stiles laughs, carried along by werewolf strength. As Jackson carries him to the sliding glass door, Stiles whispers words into his skin, telling him how much he loves him, wants him, needs him. It all disappears in a moan as soon as he’s up against the wall with Jackson nipping at his throat, the view of Paris spread out below. So someone might see them; Stiles doesn’t care. All he wants is Jackson.

#

This is it.

Well, this is _almost_ it. Everyone is here, and the food is ready to go, and Stiles is signing the first round of paperwork for the service. Jean-Paul seems nice, and speaks English with only a hint of an accent, grinning at Stiles’s awkward attempts to thank him in French.

Everything is ready to go, except for the part where Jackson isn’t here.

“How did you get away again?” Allison asks.

“The concierge called to say that his luggage was going to be delivered at half past twelve. I told him that I needed to go over to check on something and gave him the address and told him that the actual reservation was for one.” Stiles glances at his phone again—fifteen minutes after the hour. “Either his luggage is late, or he’s asleep, or he just… I don’t know.”

“Did you text him?” Isaac offers the advice as if it’s _obvious_ ; Stiles sees the way Scott bumps his hip and Allison touches his lips to silence him as soon as the question is out.

“Three times, yes,” Stiles says, tone too sharp. “I’ve been trying to check in with him since before one, to make sure he had the address, that the suit fit—any excuse I could come up with. He hasn’t answered.”

“Maybe he’s asleep.” Scott sounds like it’s reasonable, and Stiles supposes it could be except for the part where he and Jackson had napped after some mind-blowing sex that had successfully turned breakfast into brunch by the time they got to it.

Stiles smooths his hands along his suit again, stopping when Lydia glares at him and he remembers her talking about the oils on his hands and leaving traces of it on the fabric. He doesn’t think anything has stained, but he’s not used to wearing such nice clothes. Wait. “Did someone remember a camera?”

Scott lifts one. “I’ve got my mom’s digital SLR and Allison’s taking pictures on her phone. Isaac will take photos during the ceremony since I’ll be standing with you, and I’ll take some after. Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. I made sure to bring everything I needed to download them onto the laptop after we’re done, and me and Isaac and Allison will have them online for the rest of the pack before you wake up tomorrow. Not that you’ll be checking online to see.”

No, after this is done, Stiles plans on ignoring his laptop and phone for the rest of the trip, barring any emergencies. And even if there are emergencies, someone else can handle it. Honeymoon trumps pack, any day.

It’s twenty past and Jackson still isn’t there.

He unlocks his phone and taps out another message: _Jackson, wake up! Stop jerking off and come get the real thing._  

Not that he thinks it’s going to work.

“Guys, I’m going to be stood up and he doesn’t even know he’s leaving me at the altar.” Stiles taps a finger against his leg, paces across the room. He tries to regulate his breathing, to force himself to count each breath on the way in and out, making sure that he doesn’t hyperventilate or fall into a panic attack.

Who is he kidding? It’s his wedding day and it’s going just as well as the start of his trip did. The panic attack is just waiting for him now.

“Maybe he had to go out to the airport to get his luggage,” Lydia says.

“He wouldn’t, not when he knows we have a reservation. We could have gone together, later.” Stiles already thought about that one, and discarded it. “Besides, the concierge offered to send someone to get it. That’s the point of a five star hotel; we shouldn’t have to do anything other than relax.”

“You could ask the hotel if he might still be waiting for the luggage to arrive,” Allison tells him, nudging in close and offering a one-armed hug. He takes the comfort as offered, but it doesn’t really help him relax, not now.

“He’d be answering texts then.” Stiles wants to believe that it’s that simple, he really _really_ does, but at this point he’s learning to expect the worst. Murphy’s Law says that if something can go wrong, it will, and Stiles seems to be finding every little thing that could possibly go wrong.

“Stiles.” 

He looks over to see his dad standing off to one side, a yellowed envelope in his hand. “I need to go talk to my dad.” He manages to slip away from Allison, leaving her with Scott and Isaac, while Lydia looks at her phone, considering. “Don’t text Jackson. Don’t give the surprise away, not until he gets here. If you want to… just… here. Try texting him from mine again.” He drops his phone into Scott’s hands (he’s certainly not going to trust Isaac with it).

“I’ll call the hotel and speak with the concierge, see if I can arrange transportation to pick Jackson up,” Lydia murmurs. “I’ll make sure they tell him it’s from you. Don’t worry, Stiles, he hasn’t run off. He’s just late.”

Just late. Stiles would love to believe that, but the tiny paranoid voice in his head isn’t so sure.

The Sheriff clears his throat and tugs Stiles into a hug before anything else. “You look good, son,” he says gruffly. “I know that if your mom could be here, she would, and if there’s such a thing as heaven, she’s smiling down on you right now.”

“I’m not sure if I believe in hell and heaven, but there are so many other things out there, Dad, that I don’t know what to think sometimes.” Stiles holds on, taking comfort from his father’s presence before he pulls back slightly, nods at the envelope. “Is that for me?”

The Sheriff nods, holds it out, and Stiles can see his mother’s writing on the envelope, slightly faded with time. The letters are shaky, and he knows it came from near the end of her illness, when she struggled to hold herself inside of reality, when the illness stole her mind away and left her stumbling through hallucinations.

He takes the envelope, carefully slits it open to see a card inside. His heart aches with knowing that this is something from _his mom_ , a wedding gift that he never expected to receive. “I’m just going to… I’m going to go read this. Over there.” Where no one else will be able to see him when he starts crying.

He really hopes he doesn’t get tears on the suit. Lydia will kill him.

His father presses a small pack of tissues into his hand, and Stiles gives him a small, watery smile in thanks. Then he’s left alone to take his time looking at what his mother left for him.

Stiles tugs the card from the envelope, opening it carefully to find a letter folded inside. He sets it on a nearby table so he can look at the card first. It looks like it’s hand drawn, inked with shaky lines. There’s a cartoon man on the front of the card, wearing a tux and hanging from a rope off the side of the mountain. On the inside is a cartoon mountain top and one man leaning down to pull the other one up. It says _You have the perfect relationship. No mountain is too high, no obstacle too impossible to overcome. Congratulations on beginning a wonderful life together._

Stiles would be disturbed that the card shows two men—he was only eleven and hadn’t even thought about sexuality when his mother died—but this is his life and he knows better than to question the unusual. Because of course, somehow she knew.

He holds onto the card for longer than he needs to, reluctant to put down this thing that his mother touched before she died. This is a part of his wedding, and he puts it on the table so that it stands by itself, almost as if it is facing where the ceremony will occur. As if she is watching him.

Then he opens the letter.

_My dearest Szczepan,_

_I miss you._

_I know, by all rights, you should be saying that you miss me. After all, I am the one who left. But I know that wherever I am, I miss you and your father more than anything, and I wish that I were there by your side today to see you bonded with your love._

_It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it? It can’t have been easy to get where you are now, knowing where you were when I wrote this letter. But you love him, and he loves you, and that bond has been growing every day. It’s a tether. An anchor, if you will, something to keep you both safe._

_He needs you. He will never admit it—you know that about him already. But he needs you by his side, and you will protect him. You will keep the wolf at bay, and keep the horrors of what he has been from rising within to take control again. He has blue eyes, but he will be nothing but gentle with you._

_He loves you more than his own life, I think, as much as you love him._

_And he has saved you, hasn’t he? I’m so sorry you had to go through that darkness alone; I would have been there if I could, and I hope that your father has come to accept the way the world is._

_Don’t blame your father for fearing the strange and unusual. He saw it devour me; could you ever easily accept something that stole your love?_

_Protect Jackson. Cherish him with your whole heart, and care for him with your soul. You are two parts united before the ceremony even begins; there is nothing that can tear you from his side._

_I love you, darling Szczepan. Stiles. I love you._

_My gift to you on this day of days is the knowledge that you are doing the right thing, that I have known that you would do this. That you would love him, and that you would be happy._

_So go and be happy, Stiles._

_Love,_

_Mom_

“Stiles!” Lydia calls out sharply from where she’s standing by the front window and gesturing for him to join her. He goes to set down the letter and realizes that there’s a second page. He starts to tell her to wait a second, because he needs to read this, then spots the name at the top of the other letter: _Jackson_.

He knows better than to question the strange when it comes, simply lays his own letter on the table carefully and carries the second one unread to meet his fiancé at the door. Stiles steps through, the paper held carefully, as Jackson climbs from the taxi. His hair is mussed, his cheeks red, and as soon as Jackson spots him, his gaze drops.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles hurries out, captures his hand. “So you’re late, we can recover. I might have accidentally reserved the entire place, not just made a reservation for a table. They’re not going to throw us out.”

“Accidentally…” Jackson’s voice trails off, looking past Stiles at the door, and Stiles really hopes that their friends and family are out of sight. “Only you, Stiles.” He sighs roughly, then slowly raises his hand. “I lost my ring, Stiles. I just ransacked the room looking for it. I remember having it this morning when we had breakfast, but then I couldn’t find it anywhere. I would still be looking for it, but the concierge said you sent a car…” His voice trails off when Stiles can’t hold back the relieved laugh.

“I have it,” Stiles says quietly, and he lifts Jackson’s hands to show him that both of their fingers are naked. “You have to trust me on this, I have it, and it’s safe. It’s just, I needed it. For a purpose. And I need to say something, then you need to read this.”

Jackson’s gaze narrows. “What now, Stiles?”

“Marry me.” Stiles’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he swallows through a throat suddenly thick. “Marry me right now, Jackson. Here. Today. With our friends watching, in Paris, and then the rest of our vacation will be our honeymoon. Let these rings be our wedding rings. Let me promise myself to you, and I want you to promise yourself to me. Forever.”

Jackson blinks. “What?”

Stiles’s heart jackrabbits in his chest. “Surprise? It’s a uh… it’s a surprise destination wedding. Which is why we needed perfect suits.”

Jackson pushes past Stiles and through the door, blinking again as he sees Lydia standing there, perfectly manicured fingernails tapping against her crossed arm. Allison has an arm around Scott’s waist, her head tipped to his shoulder, while Isaac stands behind them both, his hands on their shoulders. And the Sheriff waits nearby, gaze darting from Stiles to Jackson and back again.

“Surprise?” Stiles says again, and _finally_ Jackson is moving, sweeping close to him and catching him up, face framed as he kisses Stiles until Stiles can’t catch his breath. He holds on, whines softly, and lets himself be cradled against Jackson’s chest as the wolf holds him, heart thumping so hard Stiles can feel it.

“Definitely a surprise.” Jackson’s voice is thick, and when Stiles looks, he sees tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I have another one.” Stiles manages to pull back, offers the letter again. “My mom wrote a letter to you before she died.” At Jackson’s confusion, he tries to elaborate. “She left something with my dad to give me when I got married. And this part is a letter to you. Not my bride, not my husband. _You_.”

Jackson takes it carefully, opens its almost reverently. It doesn’t take him long to read, a low snort escaping as his eyes scan the page.

“Well?”

Jackson folds it gently, tucks it into the inner pocket of his suit. “She gave me her blessing, and told me to take care of you through death and beyond,” he says quietly, tugging Stiles close until they stand there, forehead to forehead. “She also said that if I ever harm you, she will come back specifically to haunt me. It’s funny how she sounds a lot like you.”

“They were _very_ much alike,” the Sheriff says dryly. “There was never a dull moment in the Stilinski household. It’s good to know that she’s still doing it from beyond the grave.” His words are sober, but Stiles can see the smile, can see the shine of tears in his eyes as well.

He’s glad that his mother has managed to attend his wedding. It makes an already perfect day even better.

“Stiles. Jackson.” Lydia’s voice cuts through the emotion, all business even though her expression is gentle and fond. “We have paperwork to file and a wedding to get started. Michel and Ekaterina are anxious to serve the meal they have prepared, and they can’t do that until the ceremony is complete, so come on boys, let’s get this done.”

#

Stiles has no idea what the name of the man performing their ceremony is. All he knows is that he’s not a priest, it’s a civil ceremony, and Danny had to pull a lot of strings to make this happen. In the end, none of it matters because he’s standing there in an incredibly expensive suit next to _Jackson_ , and he’s just waiting to hear the finale in which they end up husband and husband.

“You thought we were going to what?” Jackson’s confused and slightly irritated voice bursts the bubble that Stiles is floating in, and he focuses back in on the conversation to find that everyone is looking at him.

“Why did we stop?” he asks carefully.

“Apparently we wrote our own vows.” Jackson arches an eyebrow, turning to face Stiles and taking both his hands, squeezing just a bit more tightly than might be called for. “Did you write vows?”

Crap. Stiles did write something—he wrote something he wanted the other guy to say to have them repeat—but he also left it on his laptop. “Yes, but not exactly.” He breathes in deep, feels the warmth of Scott and his father at his back, sees Lydia and Allison standing behind Jackson. There’s a click of a camera, and he knows that this moment has been captured by Isaac.

“Since what I wrote is trapped back in our room on a very cranky laptop,” he admits. “I’m going to wing it. And Jackson, whatever you say will be fantastic. You could just say _I love you_ and _I am going to marry you_ and I’d be fine with it. So.” Stiles takes another breath, steps in closer to Jackson and looks him in the eye.

“Let’s start with that: I love you,” Stiles says quietly. “I love you more than anything in my life right now, and that’s saying a lot. I love you more than curly fries, Jackson Whittemore.” He pauses for the soft titter of laughter from their friends. “I want to be by your side forever, Jackson. Whether we’re on top of the world or fighting for our lives. Through the nightmares and the brilliant dreams. While we build a life and make it better day by day, just by being together. I want to grow old with you, and maybe someday we’ll think about adopting kids, and maybe we won’t, but we’ll make that decision together. Because after today, we’re _us_ not just _me_. And just in case you think I’m getting too mushy, I still think you’re an asshole, and you will always be an asshole, Jackson Whittemore. But you’re _my_ asshole, and I love you even more for that.”

He pauses, rolls the words he just said over in his mind, and makes a face. “That could’ve come out better, but you get the gist. I love you, Jackson, and I’m going to marry you today, here and now, in front of our friends and family. I just hope you feel the same.”

“If I’m an asshole, then you’re a dick,” Jackson says glibly, and Stiles bites his lip, looking away as he tries to stifle the laugh. His shoulders are shaking, and Jackson squeezes his hands, waits until he looks up again.

When he does meet his gaze, Jackson’s eyes flash briefly a bright blue before they fade. “You’re my anchor, Stiles,” Jackson says softly. “You’re the light at the end of a dark tunnel, and yes, you bowled me over like an oncoming train. I never know what’s going to happen next, but I want to find out, as long as I’m with you. You are the energy that gives me hope. You are the other side of my soul.” He pauses, gaze flicking to Stiles’s father. Jackson’s mouth opens once, closes, then his lips press together and his expression goes tight. “Szczepan,” he says, and Stiles resist the urge to say _gesundheit_ or _bless you_ because his name always sounds like a sneeze when said aloud. 

Everyone else looks confused, but Stiles only smiles gently, stepping even closer to Jackson, close enough that they could kiss if they tried. “Yes?”

“I love you,” Jackson says. “And yes, I am going to marry you today, here and now, in front of our friends. So let’s get on with it already.”

There’s a low sniff, and Allison moves to stand with Isaac, offering him a tissue while he rubs at his eyes. Scott presses two rings into Stiles’s hand, then leaves him to sort them out so that he can grab a tissue as well. “Someday those three should get married,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Jackson to hear. “And we can cry at their wedding.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jackson protests, and Isaac gives him a dark look, rubbing at wet eyes.

“You would,” Lydia says. “Rings, dear. Exchange the rings now.”

Stiles looks down at the two rings in his hand, quickly sorts out which is which and pushes his own into Jackson’s hand. “I’m really glad you didn’t take the ring off and look inside, because I had them engraved,” he says. The date, the location, and _I love you_ in both French and English. The writing is small enough to be mistaken for a pattern, perhaps, but it’s there.

They wait for their cues, speaking their final _I do_ and sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. When the end comes, it is surreal to know that this is it, they are married, as he tugs Jackson close and kisses him thoroughly.

They are enveloped in hugs and pack nuzzles, tears dampening shoulders and cheeks. Stiles keeps touching the ring on his finger as if it has somehow transformed when they went from fiancé to husband, even though he knows it’s the same ring he placed on Jackson’s finger on the plane. There’s nothing mystical, no special bond. It’s just them.

The pack breaks away slowly, drawn to the buffet by the smell of food, but Stiles holds Jackson’s arm, keeping him back for a moment. “I notice you didn’t say you love me more than your Porsche,” he points out. That car is still on the road after all this time, and kept in pristine condition. He swears it’s Jackson’s first love.

“It’s my _Porsche_ ,” Jackson says, drawing himself up to his full height, arms crossed as both eyebrows lift. A slow smirk tweaks the corners of his mouth, easing into an honest smile. “And yes, I love you more than the car, Stiles. I let you drive it, didn’t I?”

“Once. In an emergency.” Stiles can see everyone else piling food onto plates, and he’s not really hungry yet (although he wants that cake, sooner rather than later). They ate their breakfast late enough that he figures they don’t need to eat yet. And maybe no one will notice if they disappear.

Or maybe Lydia will notice as Stiles tugs Jackson away, but she only nods and flicks her fingers as if to say _go, go_.

They move slowly into the hallway outside the main room, Stiles leaning against the wall and pulling Jackson closer, kissing him slow and languid for long moments. “Hello there, husband,” he murmurs. His hands slide just under the waistband of Jackson’s perfectly fit trousers, only his promise not to have sex in the suits keeping him from trying for more. “Do you remember the song I played when I proposed?”

“It was tinny… unpleasant from those terrible speakers…” Jackson drawls the words out. “I’m not sure I even heard it.” Stiles hums under his breath, dancing in place with Jackson until his husband laughs and sings softly, “ _You’re my guiding lightning strike*._ ”

Stiles nods along with the words, because he’s had it running through his head on and off since the trip began, but the lyrics have been changed, altered by events. “ _I can’t find the words to say, they’re overdue,_ ” he continues, lightly touching Jackson’s face. “ _I’ve traveled half the world to say I do_.”

“Perfect proposal, and perfect wedding,” Jackson replies, hands under Stiles’s jacket. “You’ve created the perfect start to a perfect future.”

Despite all the difficulties on the way to this moment, and even though Stiles is sure there will be bumps in the road going forward, Stiles knows Jackson is right. “I love you, Jackson,” he whispers into his skin, burying his face in his throat.

Jackson tilts his head back, growls softly as he cradles Stiles’s head. “I love you too, Stiles. Always.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> * lyrics from “I Belong to You / Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix” by Muse
> 
> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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